Forgetting; Seeing

Its funny how little you can see of home until you leave it. I didn’t know that the sky was gray and heavy with 3D sculpted clouds. I didn’t know that the grass in spring was so tangibly green, that horses would squeeze drops from it as they chewed. I didn’t know that it was the humidity in summer that made my hair like soggy burlap that never dried on the inside. I didn’t know these things because I didn’t know that there were other options, really. I didn’t know that they marked the place. This was the baseline, and visiting other places, the sky was empty, or the grass was dry, or my hair was oddly smooth. I couldn’t really see it until time and absence killed the baseline and things stopped being measured against home because I didn’t remember what that line was.